Saint Petersburg Russia Athletics

No matter how many wrong turns they took in the maze of life within the Communist system, there was a time not so long ago when Russian VIPs could count on one thing. As long as they were VIPs, they would be handled with care by the country's media. How Mayor Anatoly Sobchak, deputy mayor Vitali Mutko and other members of St. Petersburg's organizing committee for the Goodwill Games must long for those days. While Goodwill Games President Jack Kelly of Atlanta has been pleading with the U.S.

Attempting to find a niche alongside the Olympics and other international, multi-sport competitions, Goodwill Games officials closed their latest effort here Sunday having gained only a more profound sense of the lengths they still must go. Goodwill Games' founder Ted Turner and the host city lost millions of dollars that they will not be able to recoup soon. The event attracted little interest from U.S. television viewers or potential ticket buyers here.

Before the Goodwill Games, organizers announced that the following would receive free admission to the events: Olympic athletes, schoolchildren, military veterans, retirees, physically impaired, workers who contributed to the construction and reconstruction of the venues, anyone whose last name ends in a v , y or a vowel.

No matter how many wrong turns they took in the maze of life within the Communist system, there was a time not so long ago when Russian VIPs could count on one thing. As long as they were VIPs, they would be handled with care by the country's media. How Mayor Anatoly Sobchak, deputy mayor Vitali Mutko and other members of St. Petersburg's organizing committee for the Goodwill Games must long for those days. While Goodwill Games President Jack Kelly of Atlanta has been pleading with the U.S.

Deep inside the Smolensky Cemetery, several elderly babushkas sat on benches, soaking up sun, listening to birds sing. Usually they can be seen begging in front of St. Petersburg churches, but this week--which ought to be a bonanza, with thousands of foreigners in town for the 1994 Goodwill Games--they have been driven into hiding.

The taxi screeched to a halt, lurching the passengers forward. "What the hell?" one of us asked. The driver did not speak English, but understood the question. He pointed toward a black cat that had darted across the road in front of him. We laughed. He laughed. He, however, did not proceed. Instead, he pulled over to the side of the road and parked. It was early in the morning. The drawbridges across the Neva River are raised at 1:30 a.m.

In the dim kitchen of Valery Sokolov's shelter, 72-year-old Alexei Kuzmin, an energetic man with a sharp wit, paces angrily. "I have to stay here for the next two weeks, out of sight," he said. "I'm afraid to go out during the Goodwill Games." In 1939, Kuzmin, then 17, asked at a workers' meeting whether rumors that Stalin had freed the Georgian people of the obligation to pay taxes were true.

Attempting to find a niche alongside the Olympics and other international, multi-sport competitions, Goodwill Games officials closed their latest effort here Sunday having gained only a more profound sense of the lengths they still must go. Goodwill Games' founder Ted Turner and the host city lost millions of dollars that they will not be able to recoup soon. The event attracted little interest from U.S. television viewers or potential ticket buyers here.

Before the Goodwill Games, organizers announced that the following would receive free admission to the events: Olympic athletes, schoolchildren, military veterans, retirees, physically impaired, workers who contributed to the construction and reconstruction of the venues, anyone whose last name ends in a v , y or a vowel.

Deep inside the Smolensky Cemetery, several elderly babushkas sat on benches, soaking up sun, listening to birds sing. Usually they can be seen begging in front of St. Petersburg churches, but this week--which ought to be a bonanza, with thousands of foreigners in town for the 1994 Goodwill Games--they have been driven into hiding.

The taxi screeched to a halt, lurching the passengers forward. "What the hell?" one of us asked. The driver did not speak English, but understood the question. He pointed toward a black cat that had darted across the road in front of him. We laughed. He laughed. He, however, did not proceed. Instead, he pulled over to the side of the road and parked. It was early in the morning. The drawbridges across the Neva River are raised at 1:30 a.m.

In the dim kitchen of Valery Sokolov's shelter, 72-year-old Alexei Kuzmin, an energetic man with a sharp wit, paces angrily. "I have to stay here for the next two weeks, out of sight," he said. "I'm afraid to go out during the Goodwill Games." In 1939, Kuzmin, then 17, asked at a workers' meeting whether rumors that Stalin had freed the Georgian people of the obligation to pay taxes were true.